


Words Fall Through Me

by nitpickyabouttrains



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers who care, Drugs, Family Feels, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Petals, druggy sherlock, even if they can't show it, spring time for angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why, exactly, am I in hospital?” Sherlock asked. </p>
<p>His voice came out hard and raspy, the words sticking in his dry throat. Mycroft held his arms at his side, forcing himself not to reach across the table and pick up the cup of water which the nurse had left there. Sherlock never responded well to being taken care of, and Mycroft already had his work cut out for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Fall Through Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirenamuln](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirenamuln/gifts).



> Dear kirenamuln,
> 
> HAPPY PETALS. I knew what I had to write for you, and I had so much fun doing it. Druggy Sherlock forever.

+++

_ The needle in his hand was cold. Cold metal embedded in cold plastic in his cold hand. It was beginning to warm outside, bright buds on previously bare trees, but it remained cold in the flat. _

_ He positioned the tip of the needle into the liquefied drugs, the only source of warmth in the room. The lighter lay on the ground next to him, its job already done, and the small light it had emitted extinguished. _

_ Slowly and with great patience, born from years of practice and conditioning himself, he drew back the plunger. Precision was important. The draw had to be exact, to be perfect. Quantity to be measured exactly, no air bubbles, no misreading the meniscus on the side of the needle’s body. Drug use as a science. The scientific method had to be followed to the letter. _

_ The clear liquid entered into the needle, filling up the center, and he watched carefully. Drop by drop. Each small measure of drug mattered, could make a difference in his perfect cocktail. _

_ Pills were easier. Measuring already done for him. Quantity and quality both accounted for before he entered into the equation. But though the methods were more precise, he found the effects insufficient. There had to be a combination, for the results he was after. _

+++ Spring 2003 +++

“You asshat,” was the first thing Mycroft said when Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, after nearly 36 hours closed. 

Sherlock blinked up at his older brother for a moment, then turned his head around and seemed to take in the rest of his surroundings. The previously blank look on his face melted off into a frown. 

“Why, exactly, am I in hospital?” Sherlock asked. 

His voice came out hard and raspy, the words sticking in his dry throat. Mycroft held his arms at his side, forcing himself not to reach across the table and pick up the cup of water which the nurse had left there. Sherlock never responded well to being taken care of, and Mycroft already had his work cut out for him. 

“Hospital is where people who overdose on drugs get put,” Mycroft said, fighting the urge to cross his arms petulantly. 

He looked out the window, where he had been staring before the machines connected to Sherlock started beeping and letting him know his brother was awake. Outside the sun was bright, high in the sky.  The wind was brisk, and the flowers on the trees were already nearly done turning to leaves, green and full of life. 

Inside, however, the walls were the same depressing hospital white they always were. And Sherlock looked as if he has not seen the sun in months. 

“I didn’t overdose,” Sherlock said, pushing himself up onto his elbows with a wince, so that he was no longer lying down. He looked right at Mycroft, with that scowl, which Mycroft knew from years of experience meant that Sherlock thought this was his fault. 

“The coma you were in, and doctors who treated you, disagree,” Mycroft pressed his lips together to keep from getting upset. 

“I had it under control,” Sherlock said.

“Did you, now?” Mycroft sneered. “I’m glad I spent the last day worried about your waking up, then. Why didn’t you say before. Oh wait, because you were unconscious.” 

“Did they have to pump my stomach?” Sherlock asked pointedly. Mycroft frowned and said nothing, because they hadn’t. “No? Because I knew what I was doing. It was an experiment. I knew what I was taking and what would happen.”

Since a young age, Mycroft had been subject to his younger brother’s experiments. There had always been a range. From fairly harmless and unnoticeable, to causing havoc. Once, before he had left for school, there had been a particularly memorable incident with their father’s reserve of tobacco, a fire, and the parlor curtains. Mycroft had to admit that though he never hated them as Sherlock had, he had not been sad to see the curtains go. 

But in the past few years, decades really, they had not been living together, and Mycroft had not been witness to the experiments. It made sense, in a strange way, that they might escalate in the same way everything else seemed to with Sherlock. 

“You are telling me that you purposefully drugged yourself into oblivion?” Mycroft was still not sure he was buying it. 

Sherlock would never admit it if it was a mistake, anyway. So experiment or not, there was probably nothing Mycroft could get out of this conversation. Sherlock would do as he liked, he always did. No matter how dangerous. 

“What of it?” Sherlock asked. “You have never cared what I have taken before.”

“Yes, well, I have never been called away in the middle of an important meeting because you overdosed before,” Mycroft pointed out. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, as he looked at his brother’s face. He seemed to be taking it in, observing, like he used to do when they would play at deductions as boys. Out of nowhere a smirk appeared at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Were you worried, brother?”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “the whole thing was rather suspect. What was I supposed to think?”

“I didn’t know you thought at all,” Sherlock said, throwing himself back on his pillows. 

It was meant to sting, but Mycroft had been hearing such taunts from Sherlock all his life. It hardly registered anymore. “I don’t often, about you,” he said with a wave. 

“Well, then, let me tell you that this is hardly my first experience with drugs,” Sherlock said, as if somehow this made it better. If anything it might have made it worse. “It’s not even my first time in hospital for it, that was in university. So why now?”

Mycroft watched his brother, the way he was acting, so nonchalant. As if nothing in the world was wrong, and this whole thing was just a minor inconvenience.  

This was not going to work. Mycroft could not be known to have a troubled brother; it would be too much of a black mark on his own record. His future depended on Sherlock acting in a more responsible manner. 

But, then, Mycroft had never been able to tell Sherlock what to do. 

“I suspect this is not the end of this particular experiment,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “Should I expect to visit hospital to see you often?”

Sherlock gave him a withering look. “I won’t end up in hospital if you leave me in peace. And you certainly don’t have to come see me if it interrupts your busy schedule. Heaven forbid I get in the way of your meetings.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, leaning forward toward his younger brother, as an idea occurred to him. “That would do nicely. If you could find the time to let me know of your terrible plans before you enact them, I might spare us both these sort of conversations.”

“What would you have me do?” Sherlock asked scornfully. “Leave a note?”

“Precisely,” Mycroft agreed  with a satisfied smile. 

Sherlock’s frown got deeper, and he crossed his arms. Mycroft watched victoriously. He rather thought he was winning this round. Which shouldn’t have been a hard feat, given that Sherlock had just woken from a coma, but it was nice nonetheless.

“And if I agree,” Sherlock asked, “you won’t force me through this circus? Because I have lost valuable data, waking up in here.”

“I am sure the hospital would be willing to share any information they have collected on you, with you, if that might help,” Mycroft offered. “But yes, as long as I can be assured you haven't done something idiotic, there's no need to have you brought in again.”

“Deal,” Sherlock said, sticking out his hand firmly. Mycroft took it. 

The action lost some of its stance, its resolve, because of the IV in Sherlock’s hand, and the lack of strength in his shake. But Mycroft shook his brother’s hand anyway. “Yes, we have an accord.”

+++

_ He stopped the plunger once he had his desired amount of the drug. Carefully,  he placed it onto his leg, keeping the needle off the dirty floor. He picked up the piece of rubber hose sitting by his side and tied it quickly onto the upper part of his arm, with practiced ease. _

_ With two fingers, pointer and middle, he tapped on his elbow, rolling the pads of his fingers until he could feel his vein underneath. _

_ His arm was beginning to turn red, and the vein a bright blue, under his nearly translucent skin. _

_ He picked the needle back up, tapping the glass part with his nail, just to make sure the viscosity was right, and that no air bubbles formed when he moved it. He moved the end of the plunger, just a little, the tip of the needle still up in the air, and a small amount of the liquid squirted up. _

_ He gave a satisfied nod, that everything was ready, and turned the needle onto himself. The sharp tip found the vein in his elbow, and he pushed the metal in, past the barrier of his skin. The sting of the needle going into his arm was sharp and familiar. He did not wince, he did not cry out, instead he let the feeling carry him. _

+++ Spring 2004 +++

“That was a complete failure,” Mycroft said, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly, when Sherlock woke. 

“I left you a message,” Sherlock said, running his unbandaged hand over the swell of  gauze covering his elbow, and the track marks that were there. He seemed to be taking stock of the state of his body. 

Mycroft inclined his head slightly, agreeing. “Indeed you did.”

“You weren’t supposed to send me to hospital if I did,” Sherlock reminded, as if Mycroft had personally wronged him and it was his fault that Sherlock lay in bed, connected to a series of machines. As if Mycroft might have hooked them up himself. “So what happened? Did you change your mind? No longer trust me?”

It was a strange question, if only because the last time they had been face to face had been a year before for this exact same conversation. How could trust be built on multiple hospital visits caused by drugs?

Spring was just beginning outside, and the trees were just beginning to bud. Dots of green spotted the branches, bringing new life to the end of the harsh London winter. Mycroft didn’t spend much time outdoors, but even he enjoyed this time of year. Or at least he did until it became the time for Sherlock’s annual overdose. Once was coincidence. Twice was a pattern. 

“Who said I trusted you to begin with?” Mycroft snapped. It had been a long day and as much as his brother probably blamed him, he blamed his brother. 

“Why am I here? Why are we even having this discussion if not?” Sherlock asked. 

Mycroft could not hide the disapproving look from his face, though he did try, because he knew it often caused Sherlock to shut him out. “We are here because of your note. It said  _ I’ve done it on purpose _ .”

“Yes, as agreed,” Sherlock nodded, clearly not understanding the problem with what he had done. 

“They thought you were trying to off yourself,” Mycroft pointed out what he felt was obvious. “Your flatmate, Wyatt, was the one who found both you and your rather cryptic message. He is the one who called for help and landed you here. Or rather, I expect he is now your former flatmate, because after I got in he left muttering something about not signing up to live in a drug den.”

“That’s not useful,” Sherlock said, flicking his eyes up to Mycroft, frustration clear on his face. “I was counting on his rent.”

“Yes, and I was counting on your being more careful,” Mycroft pointed out. 

Sherlock shot him a withering look. “You knew what the note meant, why didn’t you just correct him. There is no need for all this.”

“I did correct him,” Mycroft frowned. “Unfortunately for you, purposeful drug use to lose consciousness is still frowned on by the medical community. By the time I got here they were discussing the need for a psychological review.”

“It’s been done before,” Sherlock shrugged. 

Mycroft moved his hand to his face and attempted to rub away some of his frustration to no avail. It was not that he thought it was an amazing idea, he just wished Sherlock understood the gravity of the situation. It was not for nothing that these hospital trips never ended up on his record with the police, and he was able to keep working with Scotland Yard. 

“I am aware,” Mycroft said, as he had been around home still when Sherlock had been tested as a boy. “And I told them as much, which is why you are not currently under observation.” 

“At least you are good for something,” Sherlock said, nodding and looking as pleased as Mycroft had seen him recently. 

Normal grandstanding for Sherlock, and yet Mycroft was still stung. It was not as if he wanted to be thanked for what he did. Of course not. This was his brother. The name Holmes was at stake and Mycroft would do what needed to be done. 

For the family. 

And yet, the way Sherlock acted hit some visceral part of him. It made him want to act as if he was once again fifteen and Sherlock six. 

He would not fall into old patterns, though. No matter how taunted, he was above how Sherlock wanted him to react. Hospital was not the time or place to be goaded into an argument about trivial matters. 

“Let’s not test just how useful I can be,” Mycroft bit out, standing up straighter and pulling on the cuffs of his shirt so that they were more orderly. “So take more care in your note next time. Please.”

He added the last word almost as an afterthought. Better to be the bigger man, to be polite like Mother had always insisted. 

Mycroft picked up his coat, and turned to leave the room. He had made it as far as the door when there was a loud throat clearing behind him. He turned and saw Sherlock, cheeks slightly red, staring at him. 

“Well?” Sherlock asked, dragging out the word. “What do you suggest I write instead?”

An interesting question. Mycroft was not sure there was a good way to write that your drug habit was under control. By this point Mycroft understood that this was not just something Sherlock did once a year. It was just something that involved Mycroft once a year, when things got out of control. 

“Perhaps if you were to keep note,” Mycroft suggested. “Make a list of what you took and in what quantities.”

Sherlock shrugged, not at all helpfully for someone who had asked for suggestions. “I do that now. How else can I compare my results to the elements of the experiment?”

“Well, then, make that list available to me,” Mycroft snipped. “Because after I was called, your roommate and I were both asked if we knew what you had taken. They did pump your stomach this time. Neither of us had any idea, nor did the doctors.”

“Consider it done,” Sherlock agreed. “I will leave the list of what I have taken some place easily accessible.”

“And if you lose control? Forget to keep it up to date?” Mycroft pushed. 

Sherlock looked down his nose at his brother, pressing his lips together. “I would never. The data is too critical.”

+++

_ Constant pressure applied to the back of the plunger, and the liquid drugs disappeared into his body. He pulled the needle out, now empty, and tossed it on the ground. _

_ Where he had pulled it out of his body, a bead of blood blossomed. Red and dark, it stood out stark against his sickly skin. He pulled off the rubber tubing, so that the drugs could flow through his body, and his hand hit the bloody spot, already growing looser and less in his control, smearing his blood down his arm. _

_ Eyes wide, his head fell back, as he felt the drugs flying through his body. It felt like lightning, coursing through his veins, setting him alight. _

_ This feeling, this sensation, it was why he did this. _

_ His mind blurred, as his body heated with the drug. Was this finally the right combination? Had he found it? After so many years- _

_ Dark spots danced before his eyes, until they overtook his vision. And he was no longer thinking about his experiment.  _

+++ Spring 2006 +++

“Took you long enough,” Mycroft said, staring out the window and not turning around to look at the source of the groaning behind him. 

“Wha…?” Sherlock moaned, with just enough energy that Mycroft knew he was awake. 

Mycroft watched the brightly colored flowers on the trees outside of the window, as they swayed in the breeze. Soft pinks and brilliant reds, coloring the normally drab London street below. 

It was more pleasant to look at then the flat he was in. Sherlock had not been faring well on his own, that much was clear. There were cups scattered around with dregs of tea, dust over most of the kitchen, and giant balls of lint and dust in all the corners. It would have looked nearly abandoned if not for the idiot lying sprawled out in the middle of the floor. 

“You are, I would wager, feeling rather horrible,” Mycroft said, not bothering to hide how smug he was about this whole situation. 

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered. 

“It seems that while you did take certain drugs on purpose, no doubt for your experiments, you failed to correctly estimate how it would affect your body. Unless you meant to knock yourself out for the better part of week,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock slapped the ground with his hand, rather pathetically, and it barely made a noise. But Mycroft could tell he had done it to be dramatic. Always so dramatic, his little brother. “Why are you here?” Sherlock asked. Again, Mycroft thought it was meant to sound harsh, but because of Sherlock’s state it just came out as desperate. 

“The human body can’t go a week without water, did you know?” Mycroft pointed out, ignoring the question. “Leads to dehydration.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asked again, almost whining. 

This time Mycroft deigned to answer. “Because if I were not here, you would be dead.” 

There was a beat of silence, while Mycroft let that sink in. But Sherlock always did hate it when other people stole his moment. “I left a note, as requested.”

“Yes, it was most enlightening,” Mycroft agreed. “I am not sure what experiment includes that much cocaine. But regardless, I am here because though you meant to take those drugs, you still nearly killed yourself. You have gone too far.”

“I have not,” Sherlock said petulantly, sounding every bit like the eight year old Mycroft often remembered him as, in better times. 

Mycroft frowned and turned away from the window. It was bright and sunny outside, full of color and life. But Sherlock clearly demanded his full attention. 

“Thank you for your note,” Mycroft said his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I did not bring you to hospital, as requested, because you did as we agreed. No hospital means no pain medication and no IV, though. Which is why you still feel like shit.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, using his pointed voice. 

It was not just Sherlock’s voice and tone which reminded Mycroft so much of a younger version of his brother. It was the actions in general, the going overboard. Sherlock had never been one for moderation, for controlling himself. But the drugs reminded Mycroft of a certain time, when it had gotten bad. 

“Do you recall Redbeard?” Mycroft asked, as he considered the similarities. 

“My dog,” Sherlock said with a frown. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“How old were you when he died?” Mycroft asked. He remembered it being after he had gone off to school. He had come home for a break, the dog was gone, and Sherlock had been sulking. 

Worse than just sulking. He had completely changed. Gone off the rails. Apparently, he had convinced their parents to get him a violin, when the dog was gone, to cheer up. They had agreed, but it did not make anyone happy. Instead the young boy had just played, for hours at a time, without stopping to eat or sleep or speak. 

“I was eleven,” Sherlock said, sitting himself up on the floor with a tired sort of noise. His head hung forward and his hair fell in his face, too long and wanting for a cut. It was stringy and oily, sticking together strangely, clearly having not been cleaned in weeks. 

It was all eerily familiar. 

“It was spring of that year, was it not?” Mycroft asked, already knowing the answer. It was spring, without question. There had been a break from school, and when Mycroft returned to the family home, Sherlock had looked as if he had not yet seen the warming sun. 

“So what if it was,” Sherlock said weakly. It was clear this conversation was taking much out of him, so soon after he had been unconscious.  “What are you getting at?”

“I recall returning from school, you lost control then too,” Mycroft pointed out as simply as he could. 

Sherlock scoffed, leaning against the leg of one of the chairs, but still on the floor. He was pale, faint-looking, but the expression on his face was pure distaste. “I am not that child any longer, Mycroft. I am an adult now.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft said, with a wave of his hand. 

“What is your point?” Sherlock asked, his last bits of patience, which were few and far between to begin with, fading. 

“My  _ point _ ,” Mycroft said, attempting to contain his ire and keep from yelling at his younger brother. “Is that you are emotional. And not handling it well. You never have.”

Sherlock blinked up at him a few times, before a wry smirk began to form in the corner of his mouth. It would have been cheeky if Sherlock did not look a bit like death warmed over. “You think this is all about Redbeard?”

“I think this is all about how poorly you handle having an emotion, which only seems to occur about once a year,” Mycroft corrected. 

“I am not eleven anymore,” Sherlock said. “And I don’t need you to tell what is wrong. It was just an experiment gone too far. I will continue to follow the protocols we have set up, to keep track of the drugs. And I would thank you to keep up your end of the bargain.”

Mycroft could see that Sherlock was set, he was no longer listening. Another missed chance to get through to his brother. “Very well, I will leave you to it, then.”

He picked up his coat and went toward the door. Sherlock still clearly needed help. He had gone too far. And there was no way he was feeling well, given the drugs he had taken and that were now working their way out of his system. But if Sherlock did not want any help, Mycroft would not force the issue. 

This time. 

So instead he opened the door to the flat, glancing back over his shoulder just once. Sherlock was slumped down against the chair, curled up on himself, clearly without the energy to hold himself up. 

But Sherlock was no longer looking at him; in fact he seemed to be purposefully ignoring him. So Mycroft left, without another word. 

The door closed behind him with a thud, which seemed, for some reason Mycroft could not put his finger on, rather final. 

+++


End file.
